


Aramis is Mean

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: sickfic where Porthos is sick because you know... [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9555749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Actually, Aramis isn't mean, but you know. He makes Porthos cough. Boo! Porthos is sick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> They are cops because I was watching Brooklyn 99 all week.

“Sarge, why’s my case been reassigned to Bonacieaux?” d’Artagnan says,storming over, a smiling Constance at his back. Aramis looks up from Porthos’s desk, mouth full of sub, feet up, and waves a hand. “Oh. You’re not the sargeant. Where’s Porthos?”

Aramis tries to finish his mouthful, but he was hungry and his sandwich was good, so he’s still chewing when Porthos trials back from the bathroom, a string of loo roll following him, still looking like he’s slowly dying of a cold. He pushes Aramis’s chair over and sinks into his guest chair, and sets about blowing his nose. Aramis grins, and points. 

“Oh. Gross,” d’Artagnan says. “How long does a cold last? Why does Constance have my case, sarge?”

“You didn’t solve and you wouldn’t share,” Porthos whispers. Aramis grins wider. d’Artagnan raises an eyebrow. 

“He’s lost his voice,” Aramis says, stuffing the end of his sandwich in his mouth. 

“Fine, I’ve learnt my lesson,” d’Artagnan says. “Can I have it back, now? I nearly have it solved!”

“You nearly had it solved on Monday,” Porthos whispers. “It’s now Friday, and you havne’t had any updates for me. Bonacieaux has the case. Go away.”

“But,” d’Artagnan says, but he’s cut off by Porthos blowing his nose again. Wetly. Snottily. “Right. That’s disgusting. If you infect me I’m making you come cook me soup and tuck me in.”

“Thanks, sarge,” Constance says, smiling smugly. “He had nearly got it solved, I’ve just got to get a last little piece of evidence and I can make an arrest.”

“Great,” Porthos whispers. “Go do that.”

Constance bounces over to d’Artagnan’s desk, hits him over the head with a file very cheerfully, and then goes to ask Sylvie to help her out. Aramis finishes his lunch, finishes his coffee, and makes to get up. Porthos’s hand on his thigh stops him. 

“Don’t leave me,” Porthos whispers.

“Pip, I’ve got three crime scenes worth of evidence to process this afternoon,” Aramis says. “Besides which there’s a case from Major Crimes that needs pushing. And I have a post mortem. I can’t just sit around here being amused by you.”

“Please. Five more minutes. Just till I finish lunch, too,” Porthos says. 

“You aren’t done yet?” Aramis says, looking over. Sure enough, Porthos still has half his sub. “You always finish before me. In fact, you usually finish before you get back here with sandwiches, if your turn to do the run.”

Porthos shrugs and hunches forwards, pulling his sandwich to him. Aramis watches through narrowed eyes as Porthos takes a small bite, then starts taking the sub apart. 

“I’ll be back in a minute. If I’m sticking around, I’m gonna check weekend plans with Treville. He wants to come to church with me on Sunday,” Aramis says, strolling nonchalantly over to Treville’s office. He glances back to check Porthos isn’t suspicious, but finds him still gloomily picking bits of cucumber out of the sub. He slips into the office and shuts the door. “Captain.”

“Oh, Aramis. Are you finally here to ask me to send Porthos home?” Treville says, looking up from his own lunch. 

“What? Why didn’t you just do it yourself?” Aramis asks. 

“He won’t go unless he knows you’ve come and asked me,” Treville says, getting up from his chair. “He threw up twice this morning, once in the middle of an interrogation. He dashed out right before he got a confession. Still got the confession though, got to give him that.”

Aramis follows Treville back out and watches Porthos put up a token protest before gathering his things. d’Artagnan comes sidling over, hoping to be asked to step in. Aramis touches Porthos’s shoulder so Porthos notices. 

“Oh,” Porthos says. “Cap, can I suggest someone to cover me? I might be out a few days, I think this is the flu.”

“No shit, sargeant,” Treville says. “Who’s your pick?”

For a moment, Aramis thinks Porthos is going to say Constance. But Constance is uninterested in making sargeant, and in fact is talking about going back to university and switching careers. Porthos sighs, and taps d’Artagnan’s shoulder before slogging out. d’Artagnan stands innocent as a babe in front of Treville, all hopeful and puppy eyed. 

“Alright, your desk, d’Artagnan,” Treville says. “Let’s see how you deal with being in charge of people twice your age.”

“Hey!” Athos calls from his corner, peeking out from behind his pile of paperwork. “I’m not twice his age. Not quite.”

“Bye guys,” Aramis says, leaving them to their bickering and jogging to the elevator to catch up with Porthos. 

Porthos is leaning against the wall, head resting against his forearm. He looks about ready to pass out, and Aramis feels a pang of worry. He rubs Porthos’s shoulders, and feels sweat through his shirt. 

“I can give you a ride home,” Aramis says. 

“Wha’? Oh. Hi. Nah, I called a taxi before lunch. Took you ages to ask Treville,” Porthos says. 

“Why can’t he just send you home, or you just ask to be sent home?” Aramis says. 

“Tradition,” Porthos says. “Plus, I think it was Sylvie who called me a taxi. I’m not really following thing. The lift’s gone by twice while I’ve been waiting. Everyone thinks I’m weird. I keep not getting on.”

“I’ll pass my work off. I like skiving.”

“No. I’m fine. Just ride down to the lobby with me,” Porthos says. “Did Treville say I was sick?”

“Yep.”

“I wasn’t.”

Aramis sighs, but helps Porthos unglue himself from the wall and into the lift, and then across the lobby and into the taxi. He very much wants to go with, but Porthos says no, so he has to go back to work. He does a half arsed job on the evidence, but his assistant fixes his bad work, so it’s all good. He tells everyone about how sick Porthos is, as he works, even through the post mortem. The detective on that case is very nice about it and reciprocates with photos of her cat, so Aramis has to get some pictures of Porthos, who laughs at him (a long stream of ‘lololololol’ and crying with laughter emojis), then sends him a series of snapchats of him looking truly pathetic. Aramis shows the cat detective his snapchats and they get a coffee after the post mortem and she tells him about her girlfriend. Who is the owner of the cats. 

“I was trying to show you how mad my house is, d’Herblay,” Ninon says, giving him a shove. “But you win. Vallon is pathetic. Does he, by any chance, want a kitten? Jojo just had some.”

“Yep he’d love one, but he’s allergic. Like, very allergic, they make his throat close up. OK so it’s me who’s allergic,” Aramis says. “But he can’t have cats either way. I sleep at his house too much.”

Ninon helps him push through the evidence for Major Crimes, and he manages to leave a whole twenty minutes early. Not that she’s actually much help, not being a forensic specialist. She tells him about her cats and her girlfriend, though, which is… semi helpful. When he’s got everything filed and reports sent across to the detectives, he can finally head home. He checks his phone, first, and finds a text asking for Aramis to buy ‘all the boxes of tissues’, so he has to stop by Tescos. When he does eventually get in, it’s to no lights on. He trips over Porthos’s shoes, in the middle of the hall instead of put neatly away like usual, and falls into the telephone table, which actually just holds keys, post, and whatever other crap Porthos dumps. It all comes down with a clatter and Aramis yells. The light goes on, and Porthos blinks muzzily at him from the other end of the hall. 

“I got you tissues,” Aramis says, holding up the Tesco bag. 

“You’re so clumsy,” Porthos grumbles.

He’s undermined by the fact his voice is still a thread of a whisper, and cracks. Aramis gets to his feet and dumps everything back on the table, adding his keys to the metal bowl (Porthos switched it to a metal one the third time Aramis knocked it off and broke the ceramic). 

“Have you been sick again?” Aramis asks, kicking off his shoes and going to Porthos, touching his forehead to check for fever. “You feel warm.”

“Yeah, because I was asleep under a mountain of blankets and the heat’s on high,” Porthos whispers. “I wasn’t sick.”

“Right.”

“I wasn’t,” Porthos squeaks indignantly, then glares until Aramis quells his amusement. “The first time I went to pee, and the second time-”

“You ran out in the middle of an interrogation,” Aramis says, and Porthos flushes and winces. “To the bathroom.”

“I had a sneezing fit,” Porthos mumbles. “It still hurts when I do that, and there was a… snot situation. I got the confession.”

Aramis frowns and rests a hand over Porthos’s ribs, where they’re still healing from a recent collision with a large perp going rather fast trying to escape d’Artagnan. He barrelled straight into Porthos and there was a wall behind him. Broken ribs and a concussion. 

“Still hurts?” Aramis asks. Porthos nods and makes a sad face, then grins, touching Aramis’s cheek, his jaw, nudging until Aramis leans in to kiss him. “Mm. Nice. Hello.”

“I just have a cold.”

“The flu.”

“Not the flu. I’ll conceded fever, headache, and runny nose.”

“Good enough. What about your stomach?”

“Kinda sore, and I’m not hungry,” Porthos admits, leaning into Aramis, resting his head on Aramis’s shoulder, making a sad snotty noise. “I feel poorly.”

“Aw, poor baby. Come on to bed, I’ll tuck you in and make you something hot to drink.”

“Snuggle with me. I’ve been having weird dreams.”

“Alright. I want to get you some supplies first, though.”

He tucks Porthos into bed, first, then gets a hot cup of tea with honey, and some paracetamol, and heating some soup for dinner. He makes sandwiches, too, because Porthos might not be hungry, but Aramis is. Porthos eats half a bowl of soup before curling up with his head on Aramis’s thigh and crying. Which just proves he’s feverish. Fevers always make Porthos weepy. Aramis strokes his hair and clucks at him and fusses with the covers until the tears turn to snuffles. Then he can finish his dinner (and Porthos’s soup). 

“‘Mis?” Porthos whispers, when he’s done eating.

“Mm? That’s good soup. Did you make it?”

“No. Athos did. Are you done?”

“Yep.”

“Come on.” 

Aramis grins, but sets everything aside and wriggles down until he’s lying on his back. Porthos sighs and spreads himself over Aramis, nudging and pulling until he’s the best pillow he can be. Aramis gets his phone out because he’s only gonna get bored. In the silence, Aramis can hear Porthos’s congested breathing. There’s a slight wheeze, and something careful about it, as if he’s trying not to cough. Judging by how much coughing he’s been doing at night, he probably is trying not to. 

“Can we watch something?” Porthos asks.

“Yeah. You sound wheezy, honey,” Aramis says. “You should cough, clear your chest. If you don’t cough it up, it’ll just make you sick again.”

“It hurts,” Porthos says, burying his face in Aramis’s shirt. 

“Ok. I’m going to get up, find the laptop so we can watch TV here, change into sleep things. Find something for your cough.”

Porthos accepts the cough syrup without question, which is good because it’s not a suppressor. Aramis brings him throat-numbing spray, too, which he feels cancels that out. Porthos, half an hour later and coughing fit to bust, doesn’t seem to agree. Aramis passes him another handful of tissues and holds him against his chest, ignoring the hoarse complaints and focussing on the latest Endeavour episode. 

“Oh God, I hate you,” Porthos whispers. 

“I know. It’ll help, though, I promise,” Aramis says. “It’s only eight. You can have something to help you stop in a bit, before bedtime, if you can’t stop on your own.”

“Really hurts,” Porthos whispers, huddling against Aramis. 

“I know, baby, but you really aren’t going to get better if you don’t cough, and your ribs are fine. It’s just aches. Right?”

“Yeah. kay.”

Porthos’s coughing subsides, after he clears his chest a little. Aramis wraps him in a warm blanket and rocks him until then, rubbing his back. Porthos is asleep before the Endeavour episode is complete, before nine pm, snoring against Aramis’s collar bone. Aramis rings Treville to make sure Porthos has the next few days off, and then settles down to Ru Paul’s Drag Race.


End file.
